


Take Two Seconds to Breathe

by killabeez



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: spnspringfling, Curtain Fic, Episode: s06e22 The Man Who Knew Too Much, First Time, M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-14
Updated: 2011-06-14
Packaged: 2017-10-20 09:54:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/211495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killabeez/pseuds/killabeez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean take a forced vacation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Two Seconds to Breathe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hunters_retreat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hunters_retreat/gifts).



> Written for the spnspringfling story exchange, for the prompt "soaking up the rays." Kindly and expertly betaed by chemm80 and laurificus.

* * *

 _Bow down,_ orders Castiel. He says it to all of them, but it's Dean's fealty he wants. Everything in Dean cries denial—he'd as soon worship Crowley as whatever monster Cas has made himself into—but he's not above faking it, if it means they might walk out of here. He barely hesitates before he's on his knees.

It isn't enough. "You don't mean it," Cas tells him, regret heavy in his eyes. "But you will." He raises his hand, thumb pressed to middle finger.

It's the last thing Dean remembers.

* * *

Dean's heaven looks a lot like Jim Murphy's lakeside cabin in Minnesota. He and Sam stayed there for two months when they were teenagers, and it was the closest they ever came to a summer vacation.

When he pulls up and Sam steps out onto the porch, the relief Dean feels is so intense, he comes close to embarrassing himself. The hug Sam gives him says he's not the only one.

"Think Bobby's still alive?" Sam asks, when Dean finally lets him go.

"Doubt it. Can you see him bowing down and professing his love?"

Sam shakes his head. He looks about like Dean feels, which is torn between murderous and gutshot, and not at all ready to talk about it.

"So, Cas," Sam says.

"Cas," Dean agrees.

* * *

Near as they can figure, Cas put them on ice because they might be the only ones with a chance of stopping him. But that was weeks ago, and they've seen no sign of him, or anyone. Every time they try to walk or drive away, they end up back at the lake.

Dean wishes Ash would turn up. They could use his help, not to mention his angel-finding police scanner. Dean's tried to dial up a signal on the car radio, but either Cas has them in some kind of bubble where nothing gets in or out, or none of the angels will talk to them because Cas has made it clear they're off limits.

The weather isn't always perfect. Sometimes a rainstorm comes through, because Sam's such a geek that even at fifteen, he loved nothing better than an excuse to curl up with a book. On those days, around dinner time, the clouds break and there are rainbows.

Today, though, Dean sits on the porch and watches the sunshine sparkle on the water. He remembers Sam jumping off the floating platform that summer, all legs and arms as he leapt into the air, then curled himself into a ball and plunged in. The image is still bright in Dean's memory.

Sam slips a cold beer into Dean's hand and takes the other chair. He's shirtless, soaking up the sun like a lizard. "Thinking about a swim?" he asks.

Dean shrugs. "Yeah, maybe."

He steals a look at Sam from under his shades. They're both turning brown, just like they did that summer. Dean's all freckles, too, of course, but he doesn't care; there's no one to see him but Sam.

Sam looks good, healthy, better than the quiet shadow he's been lately. He seems _himself_ in ways Dean can't define, and considering how sure he'd been that Sam would never wake up from what Cas did to him, that's a miracle he'll take.

Meanwhile, Sam sprawls in the sun, miles of golden skin and muscle that might give Dean ideas, if Sam weren't his brother.

"You know what sucks?" Dean says aloud.

"What?"

"If we don't get out of here, we are never gonna have sex again."

Sam thinks about that, then scrunches up his face. "Do people even _have_ sex in Heaven?"

"Now, that's a depressing thought."

"I mean, we get hungry, we get thirsty, right? Gotta figure—"

"Talking about it won't help the situation," Dean warns.

"Yeah, good point."

"Figures I'd get you for a soulmate, instead of Scarlett Johansson," Dean jokes, but the word 'soulmate' makes his voice crack a little. Stupid as the word sounds, the thought of being stuck here forever without Sam makes him queasy. He doesn't know whether he has Cas to thank for that mercy, or whether it's something about the nature of Heaven itself, that he and Sam will always find each other. He hopes it's the latter.

He should hate this, is the thing. He wasn't kidding when he called it the Matrix, and there's no question that he's a red pill kind of guy. But they haven't had a break in years, not so much as a night off that Dean can remember. It's been nonstop Apocalypse for way too long, and if he wasn't so worried about what Cas is up to, he could think of worse ways to spend eternity. He hopes Bobby's somewhere up here, too, kicking back with his wife and enjoying a cold one. If anyone deserves it, it's him.

Sam stretches, his bare toes curling. The condensation from his beer drips onto his bare stomach, rolls down his side in a lazy trickle that catches the sun. "Maybe I will take that swim," Dean says, to take his mind off it.

He feels Sam watching him as he strips off his shirt and runs down the bank to cannonball into the water. It's cold enough to make goosebumps break out on his skin, and he's grateful. These thoughts he's having, they're nothing new, but this might be the first time in years he's had room to breathe, to let himself look at Sam without a metric ton of baggage getting in the way. To think that maybe he's allowed to have this, despite all his sins, and that whatever's between them is as strong as he always wanted to believe. It's doing dangerous things to his self-defense mechanisms.

Dean swims downshore for a while, then comes back. When he's close, Sam strides down from the porch and launches himself in a long, arching dive that cleaves the surface nearby.

They paddle around, wasting the afternoon away. The longer they stay, the harder it gets to remember why they have to leave.

"We should try and wish ourselves a dog," Dean says. He's thinking of the mutt that showed up in Sam's memories last time. It still hurts, knowing that Sam has good memories of getting away from him, from Dad. Doesn't seem fair, that Sam's always gotten along fine without him, when Dean's so damn needy and insecure that he can't relax unless Sam's within shouting distance.

It's not the greatest thought, considering Sam might be stuck with him for a few eons, at least.

"Hey." Sam splashes him in the face. Dean thinks he's been waiting to do that for days. His expression is exactly the same as it was at fifteen.

"Don't start what you can't finish, Sammy." It's the same thing Dean said back then. Of course, Sam hadn't had four inches and twenty pounds on him.

Sam splashes him again, and it's on.

They're both laughing and breathless by the time they collapse on the bank. They lie there and let the sun dry them off. Finally, Sam gets to his feet and offers Dean a hand up. Dean takes it, and feels a tiny ache of disappointment when he lets go.

"What do you want for dinner?" Sam asks, as they head back to the house.

Sam always asks Dean what he wants, so they've been eating steaks and burgers for days. "Surprise me," Dean says.

Sam ends up making stir fry. It's one of the two things he knows how to cook, thanks to Jess, and it's good—broccoli and soy sauce, cashews and hot peppers mixed in with the chicken. There's Oreo ice cream for dessert, and they take their dishes outside and eat on the front steps, watching the fireflies as the sun goes down.

"I love that there's fireflies, but no mosquitoes," Sam says.

"Mosquitoes in heaven'd be some kind of a cruel joke," Dean says, his mouth full of ice cream.

"True." Sam gestures at Dean's face. "Got some on your chin, there." Dean wipes at it with the back of his hand. "Nope, missed," Sam says, and then reaches out. "Here."

He wipes it off with his fingers, the tips of them brushing Dean's bottom lip. It makes Dean's stomach feel weird for a second, a hot, unsteady flip that he tries not to notice—but he kind of wants to suck Sam's fingers into his mouth, and that thought makes him blush.

Sam's voice is too soft when he says, "Dean, can I ask you something?"

"What?" Dean hopes he isn't as transparent as he feels.

"That summer, when we stayed here. Did you ever—?"

"Did I ever what, Sammy?" He's holding his breath. But something lets go inside of him, and he thinks, _yes._

"Did you ever wish something had happened?"

Dean scoffs. Without thinking, he says aloud what he's told himself for years. "You were fifteen, man. We were stuck up here alone for two whole months. Didn't mean anything. When I was fifteen? I used to have sex dreams about my science teacher. She was like forty-five. Man's not responsible for what happens to him when the hormones kick in."

"Yeah," Sam says. "But you kissed me, not the other way around."

Dean's chest knots up, because that is true. Sam was the one waking up with sticky sheets that summer. Sam was the one struggling with zits and growing pains and the worst throes of puberty, sneaking away to jerk off two or three times a day. Crushing on your own brother at fifteen, under those circumstances? Weird, yeah, but still in the realm of forgivable sins.

Less forgivable to be nineteen and a half, responsible for your kid brother and aware of all that, and to let yourself forget everything your dad taught you because you liked being the center of your little brother's world. Liked that he was growing up, turning into a real hunter, learning fast and getting better every day. Liked the way he looked, all sleek, brown limbs and sun-bleached hair, the way he smelled, the idea that he was old enough to learn about sex, ready for someone to teach him how good his body could feel.

Less forgivable that on the afternoon in question, it was, in fact, you who stopped your little brother with a hand on his wrist, and when he turned, you who brushed his hair out of his eyes and had to let yourself see, just once, what it was like to feel his mouth against yours.

"Nothing happened," Dean insists. "Nothing happened, and nothing was _going_ to happen. You're crazy if you think I ever woulda let it."

"I know that. But haven't you ever thought about it? I mean, what if?"

Dean gives it one last-ditch effort because if he doesn't, nobody will. "Hell of a thing to ask, man. After all this time? Everything we've been through?"

But Sam's gaze remains steady, seeing right into him. "Soulmates, Dean. Pretty sure that doesn't happen for no reason."

Dean's face heats. "Yes, okay? I've thought about it. Usually, I'm thinkin' how much more fucked up we'd be if we'd gone down that road."

"Really? I'm not so sure." Sam lets out a breath. "I think about it, too. Probably way more than you would ever guess. And I think maybe that's why."

"Why what?"

"Why we tear each other up so much. Why everything we do when it comes to each other is so over the top. You know? All the stupid self-sacrificing and screwed up relationships and codependent tendencies."

Dean's heart is going gangbusters, a soaring, weightless sensation in his stomach. Sam putting it into words feels like absolution.

He's breathless when he says, "So what are we supposed to do about it?"

Sam takes it as the invitation it is. He shifts closer, slowly leans in. The tip of his tongue flicks out and licks the sticky sugar that's still on Dean's lips. Dean opens his mouth, closes his eyes.

It's as good, as breath-stealingly right as he remembered. It's still, undeniably, kissing his brother.

These two things should not coexist, and yet somehow, they do, and Dean finds himself putting a hand on Sam's shoulder, leaning in so he can experience it fully. He thinks, any second now, it's gonna be weird. Any second, it's going to hit him that this is _Sam,_ that the whole thing is ridiculous, and fifteen years of buried, unresolved questions will finally be put to rest with a resounding, _yeah, no_.

Sam's tongue touches his. Dean catches his breath, and for a second he hesitates. Then he lets his tongue seek Sam's again and it is _so fucking good_ a shiver runs through his whole body, waking up nerves in a rush that makes his head spin. Before he can stop himself, he's on his feet and pressed against Sam full length, and all it takes is Sam's fingers in his hair, the gentle push of Sam's erection against his for Dean to go fully hard, aching in his shorts.

"Jesus," he says when he breaks away, wide-eyed and reeling.

"Guess that was a long time coming." Sam sounds shaken, too.

"You think?"

Sam reaches out, lays a hand against Dean's neck. "Hey. Don't freak out."

And Dean is, in fact, freaking out, but he doesn't want to stop. He doesn't ever want to stop.

"Sammy," he says. It's all he has to say.

* * *

He should have known. That whole year Sam was gone— _in Hell, his soul was in Hell even if his body wasn't_ —that whole awful year, Dean thought about offing himself more times than he could count. It was always there, a constant voice in the back of his head. He told himself he'd promised Sam, but what stopped him more often than not was the thought that if he went through with it, his soul and Sam's would be separated forever. As long as Dean lived, there was a chance.

It's not the kind of thing most people think about their brothers.

They lie in the dark, sweaty and wrecked and tangled up with each other, and it isn't any less scary. Sam's body feels so good against Dean's, it's hard to think.

"Maybe this is our chance," Sam says, his face tucked into Dean's neck. Dean has his hand buried in Sam's hair. "Maybe we came back here for a reason."

Dean can't help feeling it, too. But he's still Dean Winchester, so what he says is, "And maybe Cas put us here so we'd eat the poppies and not try too hard to leave."

"Mm. Want to know the good news?" Sam slips an arm around his waist, nuzzles at his throat.

"What's that?"

He can feel Sam's smile, the brush of his lashes when he says, "Either way, you're stuck with me."


End file.
